There’ll be some changes made . . . ( An allegory)
By
Christine Crowell
Chris
sat heavily on the cushion in the small camper trailer. It had been six months since Mike’s death,
and they had spent their last night sleeping together in the trailer. He had fallen and hit his head the first
night on a family camping trip. When
they woke up the next morning, Mike was unable to stand and was seriously not
OK. Bobby, Chris’ son had helped Chris get him into their car to
rush to the hospital. A helicopter trip
to Spokane and brain surgery followed and after a nightmare roller-coaster
hospital stay of 5 weeks, she brought him home for 2 weeks of hospice care
before he died. Bobby had towed the
trailer to his house where it stayed until three days ago.
It had been a long six months and during most of it, Chris
wasn’t sure she would survive. And not
sure she wanted to survive. But here she
was, living, breathing and sort of functioning six months later. As she had worked at cleaning out the left-over
debris from the fateful camping trip, she decided to try to change her
reactions to the ever-present memories from sadness over the last thing they
did together, ate together, loved together etc. to just stopping a moment to
say to the universe, “I love you Mike.”
It had helped as she cleaned. And
she had finished by grabbing some sage from the garden and burning it in the
trailer to ceremonially give the poor trailer a new start.
As she sat in the trailer, she contemplated whether she
would keep the trailer. Mike had adored
it. They had purchased the trailer only
a year ago, thinking that as Mike’s Parkinson’s disease continued to progress,
Chris could operate the trailer herself and be able to take Mike camping. They had camped four times last summer in the
trailer and every trip Mike would talk about the workmanship and engineering
features he loved. Chris remembered one
trip during which they found a wonderful beach on the North fork of the Sauk
River where Mike was able to stand and fish without Chris worrying that he would
fall in a tumbling river. She could then
fish more than ten feet away from him and allow him independence without undue
risk. She thought that maybe she should
take a trip to that spot.
But then she thought about one of their first camping trips
after Mike had moved to Washington from California early in their
relationship. Mike had not been much of
a fisherman until Chris convinced him to try it, and then he was addicted. But many of the rivers in Western Washington
were not great for fishing. Chris
decided to take him to the Chewuck River in Eastern Washington where she had
caught many fish 20 years before. When
they arrived, the campground was mostly empty.
It was lovely, they had privacy and a camping spot right on the
river. The first day they had worked
their way up the river, fishing all of the holes and had caught their
“limit”. Or the statewide usual
limit. They walked back to camp,
swinging the fish on a line and holding hands happy and proud. A truck full of forest service workers had
passed and the workers waived and Mike and Chris happily waived back. But something felt too good to be true, so
Chris rechecked the fishing regulations when they got back to camp. And low and behold, the river was closed to
fishing that year. Not catch and release
or extremely limited, but totally closed.
So, they did what any felonious culprits would do. They quickly ate the evidence. Chris still chuckled as she mused on the
memory.
So, a trip to the Chewuck would be a good way to decide the
fate of the trailer. Chris first checked the current regulations. And this
year, fishing was open and legal. She threw together some clothes and food and
the fishing supplies she had. And her
trusty fly pole. She had fished with
that pole since her grandfather gave it to her for her 25th
birthday. Then, it was the top of the
line graphite. Now, poles were much more
refined, but the new poles didn’t have the correct ju-ju. And fishing ju-ju is important.
She
put the trailer hitch on her crossover SUV, purchased solely because it could
tow the trailer. And then spent only an
hour backing up to the trailer, two inches too far to the left and then two
inches too far to the right. Then too
far back, and too far forward. And
finally, just right. Goldilocks would be
proud. She connected the coupler onto
the ball, connected the chains, and tested and adjusted the trailer
breaks. Then it was time to test the
brake lights. But who was going to stand
in back while she put her foot on the brake pedal? A mirror, that’s who. She propped a towing extension side mirror
behind the trailer and could see that the brake lights were working.
Chris
called Louie, her faithful canine co-pilot, and off they went. It was a long drive over the North Cascades
Highway. The highway itself was full of multiple
memories of the expeditions and adventures Chris and Mike had experienced
together. She had many opportunities to
announce, “I love you Mike.” She stopped
at the top of Rainy Pass to take Louie for a leg moving smell session. And they stopped in Winthrop for a “dunch”
burger. And then up the Chewuch River
Road. When they got to the campground,
they were not alone. Chris took it as a
good sign and selected a camp site across the road from the river. It only took her twenty-three minutes and
fourteen tries to back the trailer into the site, but she did it and she could
almost convince herself that it was where she wanted to park. Of course she was thinking about how Mike
could back the trailer almost better than he could drive it forward and would
have effortlessly placed it right where he wanted it the first try. Afterall, he was driving forward when he
knocked the outhouse over, but that was another story.
The
smell of the sun-warmed sage brush and river water carried Chris back to more
youthful days as she leashed Louie and walked down the road to gather
wood. She placed several small logs
beside the fire ring and muttered a few “shits” as she realized she forgot to
bring any newspaper. Oh well. She found dried grass and leaves and a few
pine cones to use as fire starters. As
she lit the second match to start the fire she said, “I know Mike, you are
smiling. The one match fire failed, but
I got it on two.”
She
warmed some leftover spaghetti on the stove top in the trailer and sat by the
fire to eat. Lately, it didn’t seem to
matter what she ate. It all tasted the
same when you couldn’t share it with someone.
She sat quietly, sipping tea, and watched the light fade and darkness
come. She savored the sounds of bugs waking up to tell the world it was mating
season. She used a stick to spread the
fire apart and stomped out flying sparks as they landed on the ground. It would be OK. The fire remains weren’t going anywhere.
Chris
spread out her sleeping bag on the trailer bed and called Louie to sleep with
her. He had become her constant
companion and always slept curled in the crook of her knees. His warmth and presence were immense comfort
as she adjusted to sleeping alone. She
thanked Mike for his love and thought she was glad she was so tired as she
tried to read her novel and fell asleep before finishing the first page.
Morning
was crisply calling as she opened her eyes.
Time for fishing. Coffee could
come later. She pulled on the same
clothes she wore yesterday and stepped outside.
The sky was the pale blue of early morning before the sunshine added the
depth of yellow. She put her fly pole
together and opened the tackle box. For
the last couple of years she had not fished with flies as she didn’t want to be
far enough away from Mike to cast the long trails of line necessary to get the
fly to land softly like a drifting bug in a good hole. She had stuck with live bait so that she
could be ready to catch or retrieve Mike from the water if necessary. The time he fell in and his boots filled up
with water proved her concern was merited.
She had gone in the water to pull him out as he floundered, unable to get
his feet under him.
The
fly supply in the tackle box was pretty limited. She found one parachute adams, a safe
fallback for almost any water and tied it on the line. She put the box of flies in her pocket along
with some floatant. She tucked a string
in the other pocket just in case she caught something. She started down the path following the
river. Soon, she saw a rock above some
deep green water at the end of a small rapid.
She hopped on the rock and pulled some line from the reel and tried to cast. Damn she was rusty. It had been a long time since she had fished
this way. But then, it must be like
riding a bicycle. She kept trying,
splashing the fly so hard as it landed in the water that any sane fish would
have been scared away. She did catch the bushes behind her several times. Once
she felt she was getting the rhythm of the cast back, she pulled in her line, hopped off the rock
and went in search of another hole.
Around
the bend she found a sandbar with deep water on the far side. Perfect.
She walked out where she was sure she had the best chance of casting
into a fish palace of a hole. But, like
always, she found that she needed to be three feet closer. Chris thought she had changed in many ways
during the last 6 months, but the way she fished hadn’t. Always she seemed to take off in her tennis
shoes thinking that she would fish from the bank, and always she ended up
wading in to get just a little bit closer.
Good thing she had other shoes back at camp.
After
a few attempts she placed that parachute adams right where she wanted it. It
slowly drifted past a partly submerged log, and just as she was getting
ready to pull in the line, a shinny trout jumped over the fly, showing its
flashy, silver green side as it slipped back into the water. Chris was so shocked she guzzled air with a
shriek and pulled the fly away from the fish.
Oh, blessed mother of stupidity!
She tried again. And again. And about the time she was going to give up
and try another hole, the fish rolled over her fly again.
Chris was ready. She did not jerk the fly away, but let the
fish suck it into its mouth and begin it’s fight to go downstream as she reeled
it upstream. She loved seeing the fish
take the fly and delighted in the fight with the fish. She knew better than to count on a catch
before she had the fish in her dirty little hands. It was amazing how many fish she could
lose. She reeled slowly but steadily,
relishing the experience until she had the fish on the bank. She grabbed the flapping creature and held it
up, looking at its beautiful colors and deep green eyes. The fish sucked air, showing its discomfort out
of the water. “You are a beauty, aren’t
you? I am sorry to cause you distress,”
Chris said as she was feeling in her pocket for the string and thinking about
fresh trout for breakfast. But she
looked in the eyes again and stopped looking for the string. She walked back to the river, knelt down and
as gently as possible removed the hook from the fish’s mouth. “I’ve had enough death. You go back home.” She opened her fingers and released the fish
as it disappeared into the waves
